Chapter 60
ELEVEN MONTHS LATER
MarketSite is simply a Times Square soundstage, but I feel every bit of the excitement I did almost a year ago when I stood on that thin white balcony at NYSE and rang the bell.
The rhythms are the same. Each exchange offers a fresh start every trading day, and six and a half hours later, the gavel bangs.
This morning, we all move toward the right of the floor, allowing others to file in after us.
Cameras will catch every angle of the opening bell.
This time I watch from the shadows.
Carrie Scovill steps up to the wide white podium and accepts a cylindrical Lucite plaque from the head of listings at Nasdaq.
I pull out my phone and catch the moment along with almost sixty other people in the room.
The diverse senior leadership team of Wilson Outdoors joins her at the podium for more pictures.
On their beaming faces, both pride and gratitude are obvious.
Somehow it feels like innocent enthusiasm, but I know every company has their secrets—cultures that are not quite as empowering as they advertise or leadership that serves itself.
I shake off my cynicism and give Clint a shove. This is the part he dreads. He loves both ideation and execution, but can’t stand the applause of the masses. I shove him again. We’ve talked about this. He groans, kisses me on the cheek, and stumbles forward.
There is so much more room on the Nasdaq podium than there was at the NYSE.
Clint immediately goes to the back, as is his plan.
He stands at least a half a head taller than many around him.
Carrie twists back and pulls him forward.
They’re proud of the investment they’ve made in Tru-ly Trails.
Largest grant winner in the company’s history.
The cheering begins. The countdown is on.
Moments later, Carrie jabs her finger on the screen built into the podium, and the pealing of the bell fills the room.
She then tugs on Clint’s shoulder to give him the opportunity to press the screen and ring the bell.
This was not part of the plan. Clint cringes and messes up his face.
Next to me, Reid points and snorts out a laugh.
I grab his arm and yank it down, but I’m chuckling as well.
I remember Phil pulling me up from behind Dave and Terrence, the satisfaction of being seen and promoted.
Clint probably has no such thoughts.
“He looks good up there.”
I startle at Betsey’s voice. Even with all the commotion and noise in the room, her presence rattles me.
I turn toward her, my arm automatically tugging Reid close.
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” I say.
“Probably the same words that rang through your head almost a year ago—at a very different bell ringing.”
No, not quite the same words.
“Dave invited me.” Betsey tips her porcelain chin to her right. Her hair is shorter. I’m not sure it suits her round face.
Dave is tucked behind a group of employees invited to watch and cheer. He raises his hand.
I return the wave. Interesting he’s not pushing himself into the limelight, but I resist the urge to read too much into it.
The din of the room recedes as the opening celebration winds down.
Reid runs to hug his dad as Clint tries to make it back to us but is pulled into introductions.
It’s a shame Rob couldn’t make it. The networking here would be priceless, but that is not their way.
He called last night from Kilimanjaro, grateful Clint was taking the monkey-suit bullet.
“I’ve been wanting to connect.” Betsey shifts into my line of vision. “I applaud your move to Dyverse Funds. I have to say, I was surprised. Dave said Phil fought to keep you.”
Although her query is masked in observation, her question is clear. After working so hard to preserve my job, how could I have left?
But I don’t owe her or anyone an explanation of my career choices.
“So, Dave?” I cock my head but keep a small smile in place.
She nibbles on her lip as she glances over at him. “Dave’s a good guy. All that time we spent with the forensic accountants and with the SEC . . .”
I suppose my face indicates my doubts as she rolls her eyes.
“I know,” she says. “I wouldn’t have guessed it either.”
“Clint agrees with you. We wish you both well.” Limited to the contacts saved in Clint’s sat phone, after Rob, Dave had been the one I texted as Lucas showed up at the cabin.
I trusted my husband’s instincts. Apparently surprising only me, Dave proved himself a potent ally through the SEC investigation.
I continue to keep my distance.
“We’re just dating. His wife divorced him a few years ago. He’s still hurting. Figuring it out.” She looks at the floor and then back at me. “I’m happy for you. That you landed on your feet. You know none of what happened—”
“Betsey, we’re all good,” I say.
The SEC doesn’t take kindly to ignorance. I had to prove that even though we were all deceived by Terrence, for me it was not a sign of incompetence. My capacity for trust took quite a hit as everything went down. I’m still working on opening myself up again.
I finally smile. “Look, I love it at Dyverse. A pure ETF company. Assets are growing. We just launched another thematic.” The team is younger, eager for success with innovative ideas without the concerns of a legacy business.
I’m not sure if it’s a long-term career move for me, but I have a lot of flexibility.
Some days, I miss the dynamic creativity born through the roots of history entwining with a confidence in the future, like I found at Garman Straub.
For now, I am content and leaving any forecasting to my portfolio choices and not my career.
“Yeah, I saw your new fund launch. It’s just I hope you—”
“I’m fine.” Maybe not fully healed, but I’m working on it. My marriage is on solid ground. I appreciate my family and recognize the contentedness we’ve found.
“I’ve wondered, since you haven’t wanted to get together.”
I step closer to her, giving her my undivided attention.
“It’s not you. I appreciate what you did.
Not how you went about it.” I hold up my hand when she opens her mouth to probably try to explain again.
She’s used the same words in a handful of voicemails over the past year.
I appreciate her need to say them, but I need her to appreciate my need to not get caught up again.
“I’m happy for you. You deserve every dollar of the whistleblower settlement.
And you’re right; I could have stuck it out at Garman Straub, but I was ready to move on.
I’ve also found better balance.” I glance over at Erika and MJ pointing at the podium.
Erika fought hard to get her boyfriend here—one of the many things I love about our daughter, her loyalty and perseverance.
“Good to hear it. You let me know if you find the time.” Betsey holds out her hand.
Instead of shaking her hand, my fingers itch to grasp my necklace.
Oma would urge simple forgiveness. She would whisper about the path of healing for us both.
I hesitate. I don’t feel ready. But Clint and I found our something different, and our new pastor would say it’s not about feeling.
It’s about seeking freedom by unshackling ourselves from the anger and the hurt.
Clint and I have started going to church with the kids.
It’s new. The people are very kind. Erika thinks they’re too friendly, and although I admonish her comments, I kind of agree.
It’s hard to trust, but that’s the point: we need to learn.
And we are. We’re finding that trusting in a God who knows us and created us is a whole lot easier than in the people who’ve hurt us.
I look down at Betsey’s hand and grasp it. “All is forgiven.” Although I still don’t feel it, something shifts inside me, and I gently draw her into an embrace.
Betsey’s stiff shoulders slacken against me. A tiny sob escapes her. She covers it with a cough and pulls back, her smile soft. “I learned so much from you. I’m so grateful.”
“We made a powerful team. I wish you the best, Betsey.”
Half an hour later, we’re all ushered outside and onto Broadway to look up at the MarketSite tower.
Massive Times Square screens surround us, and as Clint hugs me to him, we watch the thirty-second commercial for Wilson Outdoors.
Applause begins spontaneously as seven-story-tall images of the opening bell cycle through.
The kids cheer when an image of our family flashes on the screen.
Erika takes a picture. Reid’s enthusiasm turns to boos.
His face is missing. A number of square windows Swiss-cheese the picture, looking like random missing puzzle pieces.
He got robbed and lets everyone around us know it.
“We’ll frame the full picture when we get it, buddy.” Clint roughs his hair. “Who’s ready for brunch at the Knickerbocker?” He points down the bustling walkway of Times Square.
“Can we really see where they drop the ball?” Reid’s disappointment is already forgotten. His ability to bounce back and find pure joy in the next opportunity is something I aspire to emulate. I’m growing weary of my stifling reluctance to trust anyone outside my tight circle.
“Even better, from the roof we can check out the actual crystal orb sittin’ at the bottom of the New Year’s pole,” MJ says with more words than I usually hear him string together.
Reid gazes up at Erika’s boyfriend with a huge smile.
Obvious adoration from the start. But MJ isn’t who I’d have chosen for Erika, not at first. Too quiet, too measured, like he was holding something back.
My hackles were always twitching. Over time I’ve come to see that’s just who he is—unflustered, dependable, and never one to make promises he can’t keep. He’s good to her, I’ll give him that.
My phone vibrates in my suit jacket. “Just a sec.” I glance down at a text from Alyssa about the rough opening.
When she found out I was leaving Garman Straub, she made no secret of her desire to follow.
She’s one of the reasons I enjoy my new position so much.
She’s brilliant and insightful. I tab over to her email and open one of the earnings reports she attached.
Dismal, but as she knows, opportunities abound, no matter which way the market points.
Clint squeezes my left hand. “You have to go? We understand, sweetheart. Don’t we, guys?”
The kids’ faces say differently. Only MJ appears neutral—smart young man.
My heart tugs at our small group. Lucas and Candace have tried their best to get close, but Clint remains steadfast in his refusal to welcome them into our lives.
Regardless of his repeated brush-offs, they’ve asked to see us up in Maine while we’re there next month.
Clint won’t confirm what our plans are for the fifth, but he’s talking more about his mom with me and the kids, which I take as a win.
“Nope. I’m in.” I shove my phone in my bag. “Work can wait. Let’s go eat our body weight in scrambled eggs and waffles.”
I thread my fingers through Clint’s, and he squeezes back—steady, certain. Our eyes meet, a quiet promise passing between us. Then, together, we step forward, hand in hand.